


Persistence of Memory

by zjofierose



Series: dream a little dream of me [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stranded, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Desert Island, Desert Island Fic, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Skinny Dipping, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26591911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: the thing about being stranded on a desert island is that it might be so good you never want to leave...
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: dream a little dream of me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1650592
Comments: 24
Kudos: 118
Collections: Across Realities





	Persistence of Memory

**Author's Note:**

> My fic for the Across Realities NSFW zine. <3

Day 1

The aftermath of the wreck of their small plane is fortuitous, all things considered. They land on a shallow reef within easy wading and swimming distance of an island; neither of them are seriously injured in the crash; and most of their supplies are still watertight. The engine is beneath the waterline, so even though there’s some foul black smoke from an oil fire, it doesn’t spread, and burns itself out rather quickly.

Shiro’s knocked unconscious by the landing, but he wakes up quickly enough and doesn’t seem to have much of a concussion, if any. Keith’s going to keep an eye on him for the next few days, but aside from some assorted and impressive bumps and bruises, they walk away clean. 

They’re lucky.

It’s midday not too far south of the equator, so there’s lots of daylight still to be had, but time is never truly on your side in an emergency, and Keith doesn’t want to be sitting in the open ocean come nightfall. They know the drill, and set to it with an economy of speech and motion, loading up all the fresh water they can carry, along with some non-perishable rations, the fire-starting kit, and the emergency flares, and set out for the island they can see in the near distance. It doesn’t look like too much more than a glorified sand bar, but it’s the largest of the nearby options, and it does have trees, so it’s the best bet for the moment. They can scout out other options as needed if they make it through the first few nights, Keith thinks. One thing at a time; the first is just to get there.

In the end, it takes them several hours to reach the land, picking their way gingerly along the reef when they can, balancing their loads on their heads and awkwardly dog paddling when they can’t. Keith’s got his knife strapped to his waist and Shiro’s metal arm can deliver quite a punch, but they both keep a wary eye out for sharks.

They come ashore with the tide and no trouble in the late afternoon, hauling themselves and their gear up past the waterline and drinking a ration of their precious fresh water to stave off dehydration. Shiro immediately starts on food and shelter, shimmying up a nearby palm to knock down fruit and branches while Keith scouts around this little hump of sand-covered coral for anything dangerous or useful. 

He summits the low hill at the top of the island in under ten minutes, and scuffles his way up his own palm tree to get a good view. The water is beautiful around them, shimmering and endless in the light of the setting sun.

Keith swallows hard at the sight. He’s been riding the adrenaline from the crash for hours, but suddenly it comes home with a vengeance: their plane has crashed. They are trapped on an island with little by way of supplies, and, if his assessment of their plane was correct, they have no way beyond flares and smoke signals to summon help. 

At least he has Shiro, he thinks, and forces himself to look around again. He spots the wreckage of their aircraft easily, not more than a mile off the beach. Beyond the wreck, Keith can see a line of low sandbars and tree-topped islands like the one they’ve found stretching into the distance. Promising, he thinks, in case their own proves uninhabitable. 

Closer in, their island is largely trees, save for a large grass clearing near the center. Also promising, Keith decides, and climbs down to investigate. 

\--

“Any luck?” Shiro asks hopefully when Keith makes his way back to the edge of the water where they’d washed up. Their gear’s now neatly piled under a small clutch of trees, and Shiro’s got a pile of well-ordered pieces of driftwood, sorted by size and utility. 

“Yeah,” Keith says, and watches as Shiro’s face lights up. He settles himself on a small flat rock and picks up a palm frond which Shiro’s clearly set aside for cord making. He begins the process of stripping it into thin pieces, making a pile of narrow fibers of which he then knots the ends and begins to braid. “There’s a big open area up on the hill,” Keith gestures back to the way he came. “In the middle, there’s a bit of a depression, and when I dug around a little bit, I got water.”

“That’s great, Keith!” Shiro’s got a black eye blooming, but his enthusiasm is as genuine as always, and Keith can’t help but smile in return. Only Shiro, he thinks, could make him smile in the face of being marooned on a desert island. “Anything else useful?”

Keith shrugs. “Seemed to be plenty of coconut palms; we can use coconuts to supplement our water usage. And lots of grasses, which might have edible seeds.” He picks up additional strands to weave in as he comes to the ends of the first set. “Did you find the emergency beacon?”

Shiro’s face falls. “Yeah,” he answers, but shakes his head. “It’s unusable. Beat all to hell in the landing, and took on water as we swam.”

“So much for indestructible,” Keith says to cover the sinking in his stomach, and Shiro snorts. 

“Yeah,” Shiro’s voice is dry, “pretty sure we knew that from the Great Holt Experiments of Freshman Year.”

It’s Keith’s turn to snort in remembered amusement. “Somewhere Pidge just felt a tingle of righteous validation, and doesn’t know why.”

Shiro’s eyes crinkle. “Maybe she can use it to track us.”

“Yeah.” Keith sighs. “But, okay. I assume it’s not fixable?”

“Not by me,” Shiro acknowledges, “and probably not by you, either. We can set a daily signal fire, and hope for the best.” He shrugs. “Our flight paths were logged, and even though we know now that our equipment was malfunctioning, I don’t think we went more than a few hundred miles off course before we went down.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, because what other option does he have? “They’ll find us. It’s just a matter of time.”

\--

Day 40

“Do you miss it?” 

Shiro blinks across their small campfire at Keith as he sips a hot cup of their new morning beverage. The coffee rations had run out last week, but Shiro has been experimenting with different leaves and tree barks, and has come up with a brew that’s a little nutty for Keith’s taste, but not entirely unlike a particularly strong herbal tea.

“Miss what? The Garrison?”

Keith nods, but shrugs in a half-agreeing gesture. “The Garrison. Our friends. Flying.”

Shiro hums thoughtfully, turning it over in his mind before he answers. “I miss our friends,” he says, “not in the way that I’m sure I would if I didn’t have you here, but sure, I miss talking with Matt, or Pidge, or Hunk. But,” he purses his lips in a sheepish face, “I’ve been on long missions before. I guess I’m not unused to going without seeing people for a long time. It doesn’t really bother me?” 

Keith nods. It makes sense; he feels similarly - he’d spent six months based on the moon, and Shiro’d been the only one whose company he’d actively longed for.

“The Garrison, no,” Shiro laughs, and Keith grins back. “They’ve given me a good place to have a career and a life, but, do I miss the hierarchy and the paperwork and the orders? No.” He smiles, taking another sip from the blue enamel camping cup, and Keith has to swallow at the picture Shiro makes. His dark hair is getting shaggy, hanging roguishly in his eyes, and his shirt is wearing thin at the shoulders, a small hole baring a glimpse of tanned skin. 

Keith’s basically given up on his shirts lately; after two weeks of light sunburn followed by disgusting peeling, his skin had darkened to a deep tan that serves him well enough. He’d sacrificed one shirt to be a cheesecloth of sorts for cooking, and the other two are in worse condition than Shiro’s. Keith had set one of them aside for preservation when he realized, so that he’ll have something to wear when (if) their rescuers come, and the other he saves for the cooler days, when a storm comes whipping in off the ocean, wind and rain driving against his skin.

“What about you?” Shiro asks, and Keith shakes his head. 

“Don’t miss the Garrison,” he says, and Shiro snorts. “I don’t... “ Keith thinks for a moment. “I miss hanging out with our friends? When we would all get together for food, or beers, or because Matt and Pidge had some new science thing to show us, or Hunk needed to try out a new dish? But I don’t…” he frowns, trying to think how to put it. “Other than you and Pidge, I’m not… close to any of them, so there’s not much to miss. And with Pidge, it’s like you say - I’m used to being gone, or her being gone, so it doesn’t feel… it doesn’t feel unusual.”

“Yeah,” Shiro nods in agreement, setting down his drink and slicing into one of their daily breakfast fruits, peeling it expertly with his knife and handing a slice to Keith. His hand is warm and slippery with juice against Keith’s dry fingers. “I’d miss you, if you weren’t here,” he says, and Keith feels himself flush. He knows how much Shiro means to him, but it’s easy for him to forget that it’s a two-way street; that he’s  _ Shiro’s _ best friend, too. “But you are.”

“But I am,” Keith says, and Shiro smiles that soft, indulgent smile that makes Keith weak. He shakes himself mentally, sucking at his hand as the juice from the fruit runs down the side of his palm. “Flying, though - do you miss that?”

“I do,” Shiro admits, and Keith nods. He’d figured. “But…” Shiro looks conflicted for a moment. “But as much as I love flying, this is nice, too? It’s like…” he laughs, and Keith raises an eyebrow. “This is going to sound stupid, because we are  _ actually _ stuck here, and I’m sure people are worried, and this was never what was supposed to happen, but. It’s almost like an enforced vacation?”

Keith rolls his eyes, but can’t help but smile. “Colleen’s been on your case to take time off forever,” he says, and Shiro nods earnestly.

“Exactly! And I  _ hate _ to do it, I never like deciding to be out of the sky, or making other people do my work, but this…” he gestures, “I mean, we’re basically in an island paradise, and I didn’t even have to decide which island to go to.”

“The amenities could use a little work,” Keith grumbles, but it’s without heat, and Shiro just chuckles.

“Besides,” Shiro says, passing Keith another slice of fruit before bringing his fingers to his mouth to lick them clean. “If I were going to take an extended island vacation, I’d want you there. And this way, we didn’t even have to fill out the scheduling paperwork!” 

Keith can’t help the flip his heart does in his chest, but he’s used to it. It’s a standard feature of long periods spent around Shiro, the most handsome, kindest, best human and best friend that Keith’s ever known. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles into the piece of fruit he’s eating, unable to look directly at the brightness of Shiro’s smile. “Yeah, I’d want you there, too.”

\--

Day 67

It’s the hottest part of the day and Shiro has foregone shirt and shorts altogether, and is standing in the shallows on the coral reef in nothing but his black, Garrison-issue briefs and spear-fishing. 

Keith is not strong enough for this. 

Shiro’s hair has grown out into a mop, the sun bleaching strands of it into a ruddy dark brown from the crown of his head while gilding the rest of him into a dark gold. Keith’s kept his own patchy beard shaved with his knife, but Shiro has started letting his grow, and the resulting salt-and-pepper scruff is appealing in ways that Keith had never contemplated. He’s just as well-muscled as he ever was with the Garrison, but where their consistent diet of fish and tubers and fruit have made Keith wiry, they’ve picked out Shiro’s muscles in bas-relief. There’s not an ounce of fat on him, and Keith watches dry-mouthed from the shadow of a palm tree as Shiro drives the spear into the water lightning-fast, coming up with a shout of victory and a wriggling fish. He turns and waves to Keith, and it’s all Keith can do to wave back. 

It’s not like he’s been unaware of his attraction to Shiro; on the contrary, he’s known Shiro for a solid decade now, and has been attracted to him for the duration. But what started as a puppy crush and obsessive devotion has matured into a complicated mix of friendship, tenderness, affection, respect, and, well, straight-up thirst. Keith’s become a pro at compartmentalization.

It’s not even that Keith thinks his feelings are necessarily unreturned; many of them, he knows,  _ are _ . Shiro makes no secret of his affection and love for Keith, and even if Keith finds it a bit bewildering, it’s been steadily present for long enough that he accepts it. He knows Shiro likes him, respects him, _loves_ him, even. And he’s not stupid enough to miss that Shiro, at least at times, finds him attractive in turn. But… they’ve never mentioned it, never pursued it. Shiro was Keith’s mentor and confidante first, and then his teacher and superior officer, and now that they’re on reasonably equal footing with regard to rank and maturity, they’re often assigned to small, extended-term, working groups where mixing romance,  or even just sex, and work could get awkward fast. 

It’s been a general “don’t shit where you sleep” situation, at least in Keith’s mind - hot as Shiro is, and deeply as Keith wants him, he’d never want to do anything to jeopardize their working relationship, let alone their deep friendship. So, he admires Shiro’s physical perfection with an objective dispassion, and then sets it aside in favor of Shiro the friend, Shiro the nerd, Shiro the goofball.

_ This _ , though, he thinks as Shiro comes striding toward him out of the waves, glistening with sweat and seawater and beaming with pride, is putting all of that to the test.

\--

Day 85

It’s inevitable, Keith supposes, that Shiro’s disease would strike at some point. 

He’d asked Shiro about it right at the beginning, whether his wristbands would keep working indefinitely, if there were medications that were going to become a problem. 

Shiro had looked thoughtful, but shook his head. “Not for a long time,” he’d answered. “I have an implant that dispenses regular amounts of a specific medication to help with the pain; it’s on a five-year cycle, and I got it updated last year. The wristband,” he’d rubbed at it in an unconscious gesture Keith’s seen him make a thousand times, “it’s kinetically powered, so as long as I’m moving around, it’ll have enough charge to do its thing.”

“And your prosthetic?”

“It should be fine? It’s also kinetically powered. I’ve been wearing it less, because I don’t know what repeated exposure to sand and salt will do to it, and I’d like to have it available when I do need it instead of wearing it all the time and then having it seize up, but.” Shiro shrugs. “I should be okay.”

Keith had known enough about Shiro’s illness at this point to know that probably, eventually, this would no longer be true, but he knew better than to push. Nothing that Keith knew of got Shiro pissier faster than feeling condescended to about his illness, or thinking that someone was potentially considering him unfit. And Keith wasn’t thinking that, never has, not even for a moment - Shiro’s as fit or more fit than Keith is, physically and mentally, always has been. 

Still, when he wakes to Shiro groaning in pain next to him in their hut, he knows immediately what’s going on with a sinking certainty. 

“Shiro?” Keith asks, reaching out a hand in the pitch-black of the hut’s interior. He can feel Shiro curled into a tight ball, muscles tight and constricted with pain. His skin is hot and dry to the touch, and Keith fights down the instinctive panic that comes at seeing Shiro laid low. “Okay,” he says, brushing the hair from Shiro’s closed eyes by touch. “It’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you.”

Shiro only groans in response, and Keith bites his lip, climbing over Shiro’s trembling form to the doorway. Water, he thinks, and cool compresses. It’s not much, but it’s a place to start.

\--

It lasts the better part of five days, and it’s all Keith can do to watch as Shiro battles the ravages of his disease. 

He’s known that Shiro has episodes; has seen him emerge from them drained and grey around the edges, several pounds lighter and walking carefully, like every joint still aches, every muscle still bleeds exhaustion. But he’s never seen it happen; has never watched as Shiro’s body betrays him, contorting into rictus displays and shaking with tremors. 

The inflammation swells his joints, so Keith bathes them with cool water, using the last of their shirts to wrap around Shiro’s wrist and ankles, then his elbows and knees. The groaning and gasping dehydrates him, so Keith feeds him mashed fruit and watches to make sure he doesn’t choke, drips water into his open mouth, and holds a bowl when Shiro’s hydrated enough that his inability to get outside the hut to relieve himself is a problem. The lancing, searing, pain through his muscles twists and tightens them into knots, so Keith spends an afternoon boiling the palm fruits into an oily mash, then massaging the oil into Shiro’s body for hours, starting with his feet and working his way to Shiro’s head, then turning him over and beginning all over again.

It’s exhausting, and it’s stressful, and it’s terrifyingly intimate, and it is the very least that Keith can do. In the moments when the grip of the attack lessens and Shiro is able to look at him with some sort of clarity, he can see the frustration and embarrassment and sadness warring in Shiro’s gaze when he looks at Keith.

“You don’t have to,” he says on the first night, and Keith shakes his head sharply, cutting off the words in Shiro’s mouth. 

“I  _ want _ to,” he says, and something in his tone must be convincing, because Shiro just sighs and looks away. 

Keith sets his hand against Shiro’s cheek and turns his face back, waiting until Shiro looks at him, grey eyes deep and stormy. “Shiro,” he says, and lets every drop of a decade of devotion bare itself in his voice. “There is  _ nowhere _ I would rather be than here. With you.”

Shiro’s eyes flutter shut, then open, and finally he nods in acknowledgment, turning his face to hide it in Keith’s palm.

\--

Day 91

Keith wakes to an ominously grey and heavy sky, and to the comforting sounds of Shiro breathing peacefully beside him. 

Shiro’s face is relaxed in sleep when Keith sits up to examine him, his body limp on the woven mats they’d made weeks and weeks ago for sleeping rolls, opting for one big pile for warmth and comfort over two separate bedrolls. It’s not like they haven’t bunked together before, and Keith’s never denied that he feels safer, sleeps better, with Shiro near. 

He reaches up to brush Shiro’s hair back, resting a hand against his forehead as he takes in the changes in Shiro’s expression. His face is no longer twisted in pain, his breathing is deep and even, his joints a normal size, and his muscles, though still tight from days of strain, more relaxed than Keith’s seen them since the attack started. 

Keith exhales a breath of deep-seated relief and leans in, pressing their cheeks together for a long moment as he lets himself relax the continuous vigilance he’s maintained through Shiro’s illness. 

Shiro’s cheek is cool against his own, and Keith loops an arm across Shiro’s chest, letting himself sink against Shiro’s body. He should get up; he should check their fishing lines, brew water for Shiro’s “tea”. But the air is heavy and oppressive, and Shiro is a comforting gravity as his own exhaustion drags him back down. 

\--

When he wakes again, Shiro’s watching him, something deep and indescribable in his grey eyes. 

“Hello, sleepyhead,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith groans, burying his face in Shiro’s shoulder. “Sleep well?”

“Yes,” Keith grumbles before lifting his head to eye Shiro critically. “Did you?”

“Yeah.” Shiro gives him a smile, soft and genuine, before stretching. His joints stretch and pop, and Shiro winces with the pull of disused muscles, but he sits up without any trouble, chuckling softly as Keith bounces to his feet and holds out a hand. “Thanks.”

Shiro’s a little unsteady on his feet, but he adapts quickly, and Keith’s reminded forcefully that, for all that this is Keith’s first time witnessing it, this is familiar ground for Shiro. He knows how to handle this, knows what his body can and can’t take after an episode. The experience is clear in the slow but determined steps he takes to his customary seat on the far side of their fire pit, in the easy smile on his face when Keith offers to make some tea. 

It’s early afternoon, not that you could tell from the thin light that breaks through the glowering sky. The wind is picking up, but not enough that Keith’s worried; this storm is shaping up to be more rain than anything else. They’d had a few serious blows in the first few weeks after they’d landed, but the storms have become more regular and less destructive, full of warm rain and oppressive humidity rather than wind and lightning. Still, he busies himself with making sure all of their gear is inside the hut and up on the piled-stone bench they’d built at one end of the single room to keep things up and out of the damp. He rolls up their bedding and sets it up with the gear; they’ve done a lot to waterproof the hut, and to make it so the floor stays dry, but it’s never perfect. 

Shiro’s finished his tea when Keith re-emerges, and is sitting on his log with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, a faint smile on his face. Keith watches him, letting his gaze travel down Shiro’s neck to the breadth of his shoulders, the thickness of his bicep. His prosthetic is still in the hut, up on the bench where it's stayed throughout the episode, but Keith’s confident that Shiro could get it if he wants it. He may need a little recovery yet, but he’s back to himself, and Keith watches him, grateful. 

“Come on,” Shiro says, and opens his eyes, setting his cup aside as he stands and holds out a hand. “I want to go down to the beach.”

“We’re gonna get soaked,” Keith tells him, taking his hand and letting Shiro lead him down the low hill toward the open sand.

“Good,” Shiro grins, “I haven’t had a proper bath in a week. I’m disgusting. And you’re not much better.”

“Hey!” Keith feigns indignation, but in truth, Shiro’s right. He’s sticky with sweat and palm oil, rank with exhaustion and worry. “Should I have given you a sponge bath?”

There’s a sharp edge to the grin Shiro shoots him that makes Keith trip over nothing, clutching at Shiro’s hand to regain his balance as they come out onto the flat expanse of sand. “Maybe you should have,” Shiro teases, and Keith’s heart catches in his throat. “Come on!”

The ocean is roaring in the background and Shiro is stripping off his pair of briefs to run bare-assed into the surf, and Keith… Keith is only human. He hops around on one foot, pulling himself free of his shorts and tossing them aside. As many times as he’s skinny dipped on this island, it still feels vaguely illicit to be naked in the middle of the day, exposed in the open where anyone (Shiro) can see. 

“Come on, Keith!” Shiro calls from the waves, waist deep and laughing, and Keith is powerless to resist. He grins, walking toward the edge of the water, and the sky opens up above him. 

He’s instantly wet, water running down the planes of his body and soaking his hair, dripping into his eyes and raising goosebumps across his skin. He wraps his arms around himself, shuddering at the cold even as he knows he’ll adjust. It’s like jumping into the deep end of a pool, a shocking chill that submerses him, fading into cool relief as he lifts his hands and face to the sky, shivering as he lets the water run over him in cleansing rivulets.

“Cold?” Shiro asks from very close by, and Keith opens his eyes and blinks back rain to see Shiro in front of him, a vision of an ocean deity, coursing with water and beaming with joy, stepping into Keith’s space to wrap an arm around him and pull him close, and  _ oh _ , Keith thinks, so  _ that’s _ what it feels like to be pressed against Shiro’s naked body. 

He shudders involuntarily, a combination of chill from the rain and the shock of heat that is Shiro pressed against his front. Shiro wraps his arm tighter around Keith’s back, pressing them together from ankles to shoulders, and brings his mouth to Keith’s ear.

“Okay?” Shiro asks, voice soft, and Keith hears everything in that one word, an entire galaxy of love and patience and long-banked desire. 

Keith reaches up to wind a hand into Shiro’s dripping hair, water pouring around them as he presses even closer to Shiro in a vain attempt to hide from the pounding rain. He turns his head, catching Shiro’s eyes with his own. “ _ Always _ ,” he answers, “Shiro - “ but he’s cut off by the touch of Shiro’s mouth to his own, warm and wet and tasting of ocean and tea bark. It’s better than Keith could ever have imagined, and he lets himself melt into the touch of it, firm and reassuring as the hold of Shiro’s arm around him. He kisses back, fingers wrapped in the strands of Shiro’s topknot, free hand wound around Shiro’s shoulders and digging in, clutching him to Keith as their mouths move together. 

He’s hard against Shiro’s hip, can feel Shiro’s hefty length shoved up against his own thigh, but he’s honestly not even paying any attention to any of that, too lost in the revelation of Shiro’s mouth against his own. But then Shiro breaks the kiss with a twinkle in his eye, and sinks to his knees on the sand, raising his face to gaze up at Keith from navel height. 

“Oh,  _ god _ ,” Keith mutters, covering his face with his hands, because there is no part of him that is at all prepared for the sight of Shiro on his knees at Keith’s feet, naked and eager and so, so pleased with himself. 

Shiro’s arm winds around Keith’s hips, anchoring him and holding him just where Shiro wants him both. “Okay?” Shiro asks again, and Keith nods, dropping his hands to cradle Shiro’s face. 

“Always,” he says again, and the smile Shiro gives him is blinding before he turns his head to bury a kiss in Keith’s palm, then slides his mouth all the way down Keith’s dick. 

Keith nearly falls, his knees buckling at the combination of the heat of Shiro’s mouth and the sight of Shiro lips wrapped around his cock. Shiro’s arm is steady around him, holding him up even as he staggers, Shiro’s tongue wrapping sinfully around Keith’s shaft. Keith feels like he should be embarrassed by how fast this is going to be over, but he can’t bring himself to care. He can’t look away, can’t tear his eyes from the sight of Shiro’s head bobbing back and forth, from Shiro’s blissed out expression. He feels the touch of Shiro’s dick against his shins, and has just enough presence of mind to bring his legs together, catching it in the hollow just below his knees. 

Shiro groans at the pressure as Keith presses his legs together, and the sensation of it nearly does Keith in. He’s clutching unashamedly at Shiro’s head and shoulders for support, struggling not to bend double at the sensations plowing through his body as Shiro takes him apart with his mouth. He can feel Shiro thrusting shallowly between his legs, can feel Shiro’s dick throbbing against his own chilly skin, and when Shiro catches his eye and swallows, it’s all over. Keith shouts from deep in his chest as he empties himself across Shiro’s tongue, an accompanying sudden warmth spreading across the back of his calves as Shiro shudders hard against him, then goes still. 

The rain is beginning to taper off from a deluge to a steady downpour, the kind that Keith knows from experience will last the rest of the afternoon. He’s still clinging to Shiro, his support, his rock, his mind blissfully empty and his body fallen away into muted ecstasy. He can feel Shiro breathing deeply against him, his face buried against Keith’s belly, hand rubbing mindless circles against Keith’s hip. 

“Hey, baby,” Shiro murmurs, blinking up at Keith, his eyelashes wet with rain. “Can I take you home?”

Keith snorts, but leans down to kiss Shiro’s shit-eating grin, licking the taste of himself off Shiro’s tongue. 

“Always,” he says, and reaches down to haul Shiro up off the sand.

\--

Day 124

Keith’s walking along the beach, reeling in their fishing line and collecting the catch, when he sees it. It’s been long enough since he’s seen anything motorized that it confuses him for a brief moment before his brain resolves it into a drone, and he drops the woven basket of fish he’s carrying in surprise.

The drone lands in front of him, sitting innocuously on the sand, and Keith watches it for a long, careful moment before using the butt of his walking stick to poke at it. It neither blows up nor makes any alarming motions, so he leans in more closely to take a look. 

There’s a motion in his gut that he can’t identify as either disappointment or excitement when he sees the Holts’ signature markings on the plating. It must be excitement, he decides, and picks the drone up carefully, settling it on top of the fish. He ties off the line, unable to convince himself that it’s okay to let it go now that they’ve had contact from the wider world, and heads back to find Shiro.

\--

“Did you try to open it?” Shiro asks, eying what seems to be a message receptacle on the top of the drone. 

Keith shakes his head. “No,” he says, his tone stiff, “I just brought it back here.”

Shiro looks at him for a long moment, considering, then turns back to the drone. “Well, may as well see what they have to say,” he says, and it’s as much to himself as it is to Keith. Shiro lifts a hand and presses the Holt logo, and the top of the drone opens up to reveal a tracker and a waterproof note. 

“What is it?” Keith asks, and tries to ignore the way his voice sounds thick around the words. 

Shiro hums thoughtfully as he reads, then blinks at the tracker. “It says that, if we find this, we should press the button, and then they’ll have a confirmed lock on our position and can come get us within forty-eight hours.” He looks up at Keith, and Keith feels like he’s drowning in all the things they haven’t said, lost in the shifting emotions reflected in Shiro’s eyes. 

Keith swallows hard. He doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know what Shiro wants, doesn’t know how to pull apart the importance of their former careers and their friends and their lives back in the desert and weigh it against the comfortable intimacy of their little hut, of the feeling of Shiro’s bare skin pressed against him and the unceasing roar of the waves in his ears. 

All he knows is what they should do, so he bites his lip and looks at Shiro.

“Guess we better press the button, then,” he says, and Shiro nods, once, slowly.

“Guess so,” Shiro says, and presses the button.

\--

Shiro goes to bed early. It’s late spring now, in as much as that’s noticeable on an island in the middle of the ocean to someone who grew up in a desert. But, the days are getting faintly shorter, and the rains have begun to taper off. 

Keith stays up, watching across the open ocean as the moon rises, a slim golden sickle slicing through the purple-dark sky. He can see all the constellations here, the five classical planets, and the majestic sweep of the milky way spilling across the vast expanse of interstellar space. 

It’s moving; inspiring. He can’t imagine, he finds, being anywhere else.

\--

He enters the hut in the dark, bare feet moving in practiced steps across the packed dirt floor. Shiro’s breathing is even and slow, but it’s the perfect kind of relaxed that means that Shiro’s still awake. 

Keith almost goes back out; he doesn’t have words for what he’s feeling, and he doesn’t want to talk right now, doesn’t know how to tell Shiro that he’s already mourning the loss of this life they’ve built together, this careful space between them where their love has grown, nurtured and protected and coaxed along in a perfect vacuum of reality.

He wants to leave. He wants to run away. The irony of the fact that there is literally nowhere more remote that he could run to isn’t lost on him, and Shiro deserves better anyway, so he kneels down on the mats at Shiro’s side, lets Shiro’s arm curl around his waist and pull him down.

Keith opens his mouth to say something, he isn’t sure what, but Shiro covers it with his own, rolling them over until his bulk is pressing Keith to the ground, heavy and comforting. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and his legs around Shiro’s waist, whimpering as Shiro’s big, rough hand slips under the loincloth that Keith wears these days, made from the remnants of his old shorts. Keith’s already hard; he’s always had a hair trigger response to Shiro anyway, and the erasing of all the walls that stood between them has only intensified his responses to Shiro’s physical presence. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, his huge hand rubbing up the back of Keith’s bare thigh, hoisting Keith’s leg higher around his waist. Shiro’s voice is wrecked, and Keith’s heart hurts to think of Shiro alone in their little hut, waiting and waiting for a Keith who didn’t come. 

“I’m sorry,” Keith breathes into his ear, gripping at Shiro’s shoulders as he feels Shiro’s hand fumbling for the shell of palm oil they keep near the bed. The press of Shiro’s fingers is impatient, but so is Keith, twisting until he can get an arm loose to yank Shiro’s own modesty covering out of the way without ceremony. Shiro’s cock bounces hard and heavy against the cup of Keith’s hip, and Keith growls under his breath as he slicks his own fingers, grabbing Shiro’s length and coating it thoroughly before guiding it to rest against him. “I’m sorry I left you alone.”

“It’s okay, Keith,” Shiro tells him, and presses in, the stretch transcendent as Keith scrabbles at Shiro’s heavy frame for purchase, clutching a hand into Shiro’s hair as he brings their mouths together. He focuses on his breathing as Shiro bottoms out, gives himself over to the sensation of the sticky sweat between their chests, the roaring of their blood as it echoes the ever-present song of the ocean in their ears. Pleasure breaks over him in a wave as Shiro plants his knees and begins to move, his forearm wedging itself beneath Keith’s hips to lift him higher as Shiro thrusts into him. He’s making noises, he knows; he can hear himself moaning, can hear the cries of Shiro’s name as they pull from his throat like breakers as Shiro’s tide rolls over him, pulling him under with no regrets, drowning in a sea of darkness and soul-deep love. 

Shiro comes to him like a riptide, slow and beautiful to watch, sharp and relentless once it’s caught hold, dragging Keith out to sea on a raft of pleasure as he comes against Shiro’s chest, painting him with salt and water as he shudders in Shiro’s arms. He can feel Shiro roll ashore within him, coming to rest at last in a shivering heap draped across Keith’s narrow frame.

They lie in silence for a long, long moment, breath slowing from a hurricane to a summer squall to a gentle evening breeze, listening as the nightlife of the island rustles and peeps outside the walls of their hut. Of their  _ home _ , Keith thinks, and tightens his grip.

“Keith,” Shiro says eventually, his voice soft and tired. “I love you.”

“I know,” Keith says, and he does. He reaches up to stroke Shiro’s hair back behind one ear, letting his fingers drag across the scar that slices across Shiro’s perfect nose. 

“I’m going to keep loving you,” Shiro says, “when we go back. You know that, right? It doesn’t matter where we are, or who’s around us. I’ll still love you.”

“I know,” Keith says again, feeling like it’s dragged out of him, heart cracked open in his chest and pouring out. “I will, too.”

Shiro kisses him again, too many teeth and the salt of tears on his tongue, but Keith kisses him back hard, holding him so tight it hurts them both, biting his lip on what he thinks he wants to say.

He waits, and waits, unsure if he’s even allowed to want this, to consider this as any kind of possibility, but like the tide coming in, it rolls past the artificial boundary of his mouth and spills into the air between them.

“Shiro,” Keith says, voice shaking. “I don’t want to go.”

\---

“And you promise you’ll stay in touch? At least once a week?” Pidge narrows her eyes at them, first one, then the other.

Shiro grins and salutes. “We promise. Right Keith?”

“Right,” Keith says, and tries not to squirm as Pidge drags him into a fierce hug. “And we’ll build a guest hut for when you and Matt take your PTO in three months.”

Pidge sniffs. “As if. We’ll be staying on our science yacht, thank you very much. But I will expect a full taxonomic catalog of the flora and fauna of this island, do you hear me?” She shakes a stylus at both of them. “Otherwise, mom will come out here and get it herself.”

Shiro shivers, and Keith would laugh, but the idea of Colleen Holt swanning around their island collecting samples is legitimately terrifying. 

“Aye, sir,” Shiro says solemnly. 

“You’re really sure about this?” Matt asks again, his face sad. “You could always come take your vacations here, you know? You don’t have to resign.”

Shiro claps him on the shoulder. “We’re sure,” he says, and Matt nods, dragging him in for a long hug. 

“Alright,” Matt says after a moment, breaking away and wiping surreptitiously at his eyes. “We’ll be back in a week with a full complement of supplies, back-up meds for Shiro, and a set of extra communicators with a solar power grid to keep them juiced up. In the meantime,” he gestures at the pair of drones on the ground between them, “contact us if you need anything, and we will turn right back around and come and get you.” 

“We will,” Keith tells him, and lets himself be squeezed one last time by Pidge.

“Take care of each other,” Pidge admonishes as she steps into the small hovercraft behind her brother, shaking a finger at them both. “We’ll be back to check up on you!”

“Fly safe!” Shiro tells them, tucking Keith under one arm as he waves with the other. Keith wraps an arm around Shiro’s waist and follows suit, waving vigorously as the craft takes off and zips away into the sunset. 

They stand like that, staring, long after it’s disappeared into the glimmering waves.

“Well,” Shiro says at last, turning his smile toward Keith. “Wanna go home?”

Keith smiles back, looping their fingers together. 

“Always,” he answers.


End file.
